Surprised, she took a slow sip of beer and decided to use his own words. “Is that so?”
“You took your time blooming, but you got it right. I noticed that.” He rose, got himself another beer, held up a second in offer. She shook her head. “Hard not to notice, or squash the interest. But that would’ve put me at, what, about eighteen. And at eighteen I was already thinking about when I’d light out and make my fortune. Added to it, you were my best friend’s little sister.”
“That’s never going to change.”
“But you’re not so little anymore. And that three years or so difference between us, that doesn’t matter once you grow up. Plus, I’m back.”
“Did you make your fortune, Callen?”
“I did well enough. More, I did what I needed to do. I learned what I needed to learn. Now I’m back, and for good.”
When her eyebrow winged up, he shook his head.
“I’m done lighting out, done needing to. This is my land. It’s not about the owning of it, but waking up in the morning knowing you’re where you want to be, having good work to do and good people around you.”
His words struck a chord with her. “You lost most of the broody.”
“A good part of the pissed off, too, seeing as they went pretty much hand in hand. Now, about that date.”
With a half laugh, she set down the beer and rose. “I’ll send you the week’s schedule. It’ll change because some guests wait until they’re here to book a riding lesson or a trail ride—and the sleigh rides we’ll have going starting next week.”
She walked over, shrugged into her coat. “If you have any questions about how to work it, shoot me an e-mail back. Or come into my office.”
“That’s not a yes or no on the first of May.”
She smiled. “It isn’t, is it? Thanks for the beer,” she added, and strolled out.
On a low chuckle, Callen patted a hand over his heart. One of the biggest appeals, to his way of thinking, of a sassy, contrary woman—especially one with a good, sharp brain—was the challenge presented.
He’d never been able to resist a challenge.
*
By the time Billy Jean rang up the last tab and finished the routine closing of the Saloon, her feet were barking like her mother’s irascible Jack Russell terrier.
She looked forward to getting off them, sliding into bed even if it was alone, since she’d shown her boyfriend （cheating, lying, no-good bastard） the door a few days before.
More, she looked forward to adding the night’s tips to her Red Dress Fund.
She’d found it while doing some online shopping and had fallen in lust. She visited it in her shopping cart every day; and by her calculations, tonight’s tips would allow her to click Buy.
One hundred and forty nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.
A lot of money for a dress, she thought as she shut off the lights. But not for this dress. Plus, it was a reward for hard work, and a symbol of her new status as a single woman.
She’d wear that red dress her next night off, maybe head on down to the Roundup for some drinking and dancing. Then they’d see what’s what, she decided, with lingering bitter thoughts of her ex.
She wandered out into the cold. Heard the crunch of her boots on the gravel stir up the quiet. She’d let the last group of customers linger a little longer than she should have. But those tips, those tips added up.
And she could sleep half the morning if she wanted.
She just loved working the last shift.
She got into her car—a secondhand compact SUV she’d be paying off for what right then seemed forever. But it got her where she wanted to go and back again.
She headed away from what they called Bodine Town, with its restaurants and shops and offices, wound her way on the unpaved roads, snaking by woods and dark cabins, onto the bumpy corrugation that jostled her kidneys and made her wish she’d stopped in the ladies’ before she’d locked up.
But once she got to the paved road, she could hit the gas. Her little car could move like a jackrabbit, and at this time of night, the road would be clear as a summer morning.
About fifteen minutes, she told herself, and she’d be home.
Then her car bucked, made a couple of coughing noises, and died.
“Well, goddamn it! Goddamn it, what is this!”
Snarling, she turned the key, pumped the gas. And when nothing happened, smacked the wheel.
What the hell was she supposed to do now?
She sat a moment, eyes closed, until she could gather herself. After slamming out of the car, she yanked up the hood. Cursing again, she stomped back to grab a flashlight out of her glove compartment.
She could change a tire—and had. She knew how to add water to a radiator, gas to the tank, and check battery cables. Other than that, she might have been staring at a rocket engine.
She left the hood up, paced over to kick the front tire before digging her phone out of the purse she’d left on the front seat.
Her first instinct was to call Chad—the cheating, lying, no-good ex. Then she remembered they were exes. She considered calling one of her divorced parents, but neither of them lived that close by.
She toyed with doing a search for a twenty-four-hour road service or calling her friend Sal. Sal was closer, but—
She heard an engine, saw the swish of headlights, and thought: Thank God!
When the truck slowed down, stopped behind her car, Billy Jean hurried over to the driver’s window.
He said, “Looks like you need some help.”
She gave him her best smile. “I’d sure appreciate it.”
— 1992 —
Another Thanksgiving came and went. Alice knew the days by squares and numbers on the calendar. He hadn’t taken that way—yet. She marked time by it, and tried, tried so hard to imagine herself at home, around the big table in the dining room.
Ma making two big turkeys—one for the ranch hands. If she tried hard enough, she could smell it scenting the kitchen. Grandpa would grill beef, too, and Grammy would glaze a ham. Her favorite.
And all the trimmings, too. Mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green beans, brussels sprouts—not her favorite. Biscuits and gravy.
She’d make the cranberry sauce. She liked watching the berries pop as they boiled up. Reenie would make deviled eggs. They took time, and too much patience.
And just when you thought you couldn’t eat another bite? All those pies!
She imagined herself as a little girl, sitting beside her sister at the kitchen table, making little tarts with the leftover pie dough.
Ma humming as she rolled out more.
But even as Alice’s lips curved, the images wouldn’t stick. They flickered and faded away until she was lying on the cot in that terrible room, the irons heavy on her leg, and her arms empty.
He’d taken her baby.
Though her milk had dried up—painfully—the phantom ache in her breasts remained, a terrible reminder.
She escaped into sleep—what else did she have? In sleep she tried to go back home. Thanksgiving turkey, riding a fast horse while the sky exploded with sunset light.
Would she ever see the sun again?
Putting on lipstick, buying a new dress. Lying out under the summer stars with a boy who wanted her.
Would anyone ever touch her with care and sweetness again?